Before I Say I Do [18+][BXB]

1: Morning & Marks

The sunlight hit him like a slap.

Christian Harper groaned and threw an arm over his face, the pounding in his skull beating out a rhythm that could've passed for a war drum. His mouth tasted like a distillery, his skin sticky with sweat and something else he couldn't name. He didn't remember getting into bed. In fact, he didn't remember much at all after the sixth, or maybe seventh, shot of tequila.

Bachelor parties were supposed to be wild. That was the point, right? One last night of debauchery before settling into a lifetime of polite dinners and matching holiday pyjamas. But this... this felt like more than a hangover. It felt like he'd been run over by a train. Every muscle ached. Every movement made pain shoot up his spine. 

Christian slowly sat up, blinking against the light slicing through the blinds. His shirt was missing. So were his boxers. Naked. Shit.

He swung his legs over the side of the bed and froze. There were marks on his thighs: reddened crescents. Fingernail scratches. He looked down at his chest. Hickeys. Four, maybe five. Deep ones, angry with color.

His stomach twisted.

"No," he muttered, dragging a hand through his hair. "No, no, no..."

The memory was a blank slate but the evidence was scrawled across his body like a confession. Someone had been here. He'd been with someone.

But it couldn't have been a woman. Lydia, his fiancée, had been very clear: no strippers, no dancers, no women at all and the guys, reluctantly, had obeyed. Christian had been more than happy to comply; he didn't need any last minute mistakes before the Big Day. It had been just the usual crew: his groomsmen, a few close friends and Lydia's brother, Oliver Winters, who he'd only invited out of courtesy and hadn't really expected would show up. 

Christian stood abruptly, swaying as the room tilted slightly. His phone buzzed on the nightstand. A text from Lydia lit up the screen:

Good morning, future husband 🥰 How's your head?

He stared at the message, guilt already curdling in his chest.

With a groan, he stumbled into the bathroom, turned on the shower and avoided looking in the mirror. He needed to forget about the scratches. The hickeys. The sense that something had shifted beneath his feet. If he thought about it for even a moment he'd have to wonder which man he'd taken to bed in his drunken state. His stomach churned uncomfortably. 

He needed to forget last night.